


pyrotechnics

by rime



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Promare (2019)
Genre: College, M/M, Pining, can i make it any more obvious, felix is burnish, oblivious idiots, sylvain is curious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rime/pseuds/rime
Summary: Sylvain isprettysure Felix is Burnish. He's gonna find out.





	pyrotechnics

**Author's Note:**

> you have to start out listening to kakusei <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPCLhSseIb8>  
i’m sorry i don’t make the rules  
and then switch to inferno <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5JyS_dogGk> when YOU KNOW WHEN

Sylvain is staring out the window when he connects the dots. The thought hits him like a truck midway through his morning coffee and leaves him coughing it up:

Is Felix _ Burnish? _

It would make sense -- so _ much _ sense. Why he loves cooking and hates baths. How he wears seven layers of waterproof clothing when it rains. Even his personality is a carefully banked fire, periodically blazing -- shit, he’s _ gotta _ be.

But why wouldn’t he say? 

Maybe he’s... embarrassed? Maybe even afraid. All that drama ten years back -- it’s all water under the bridge but there are those who don’t love the Burnish, even now. Obviously Sylvain’s cool with them, with it, with the whole burning stuff. No matter what, no matter anything, he’s cool with Felix! And fire powers are pretty cool, if you ask him. 

Plus it’s… kinda attractive? 

* * *

But how is he gonna find out? 

That weekend Dimitri and Ingrid can’t make it to brunch so it’s just the two of them and Felix allows him the luxury of picking the place for once. Felix has some weird relationship with spicy food where he says he hates it and never orders any but laps it up when he gets the chance, and hot damn would that ever be consistent with the Burnish thing. When the waiter wanders over Sylvain orders the hottest thing he sees on the menu and waits for Felix’s face to simultaneously light up and twist with alarm. He isn’t disappointed when the pizza, one Inferno Margherita, arrives at their table, greasy and glistening and absolutely slathered in pepperoncini oil. Their waiter slides it over the oak counter in one deft motion and vanishes from sight. 

“You didn’t _ know_?” demands Felix, wolfing down another slice. “That I don’t eat spicy food?”

“I don’t _ know _ anything,” says Sylvain, as petulantly as he can manage around a mouth of pure hell. “I just ordered the first thing I saw! I come here for the mimosas, anyway. Can’t argue with bottomless.” He’s a great liar. He really is.

“It’s called _ Inferno_,” says Felix, like he’s teaching a grade-schooler, “because it’s _ hot. _ Did you miss that? That would be moronic, even for you.” 

_You’re lucky I didn’t order the Megamax. _“Look, you look like you’re enjoying it, but if you really don’t like it let’s just get something else, yeah?”

There’s a moment of silence which Sylvain uses to, you know, actually taste the food. It’s… surprisingly good. Scalding, yeah. But good. 

“This is actually delicious,” he allows, around a mouthful of cheese and chili flakes. “Like, when I can taste it.” 

“It’s not bad,” Felix concedes. 

“So you _ do _ like spicy shit,” Sylvain says, and Felix fumes at the callout while staring stubbornly at his plate. It’s licked clean.

“I do _ not. _ It’s… it’s complicated.” 

Complicated, huh? Another point for Burnish. 

Man, Sylvain actually has no idea what he was imagining when he came up with this spicy food scheme. Did he think Felix was going to catch on fire? Spark at the edges? He looks at Felix’s fingers for embers, ashes, kindling. Finds nothing. Shit, what do Burnish even _ do_? 

At least they drink mimosas. Good on them. 

Tears are practically running down his face. Does this thing have ghost peppers? But it hurts so _ good. _

“I’m pretty sure I’m just drinking chili oil at this point,” says Sylvain, sniffling wildly.

“Idiot,” says Felix. 

But. 

Maybe it’s the wood-smoked oven -- and that’s a likely possibility, they are in an artisanal pizzeria -- but it smells pretty fucking smoky in here, like a pile of woodchips lazily kindled, tendrils of smoke fanning every which way in the midsummer air. Or maybe it’s not the oven at all. Has Felix always smelled so good? _ If he were a girl… _hazily drifts to mind, unbidden, and Sylvain is definitely not going to entertain that thought. Cause he’s not Burnish but if he thinks about that -- yeah, he’ll do more than spark. 

He’ll ignite.

* * *

Okay, so the pizza ruse didn’t work: what’s next? 

Sylvain considers various things. Maybe he hadn’t gone spicy enough. Thai food? Curry? But realistically the Inferno Margherita’s pretty hot. In the end he settles on swordfighting. Swords have blades, and blades can spark, and if Felix is actually Burnish then he'll burn down Garreg Mach’s forests if woodcutting duty goes awry. 

Plus Sylvain_ likes _ fighting Felix. There’s no one better. Sylvain always loses -- except with a lance. He usually loses with a lance. But not today. Today, bizarrely, he has the upper hand. Is Felix ill? 

Maybe it’s the weather. Awful and muggy. That would probably do things to a Burnish. It’s doing things to Sylvain_. _ Unfortunately his concentration is so poor that he manages to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, absent-mindedly holding his lance at a precarious angle that Felix shatters in one swoop of his sword, knocking it from Sylvain’s hands like a child’s toy.

“Dead,” says Felix. 

“Sorry,” says Sylvain, trying to look like he cares. He reaches for the lance out of obligation but doesn’t do it quite fast enough. Felix scoffs, knocks it further from reach. “Dead again.”

On attempt number four he manages to wrest the lance back into his possession, but Felix is on him again, blade coming to rest just above Sylvain’s throat. 

“You’re not even trying.” 

Sylvain reaches out, without thinking, and brushes his hand -- the other hand, the free hand, that dangles alluringly by his waist. Felix jolts at the touch but does not move.

“You’re warm_,” _says Sylvain. “Are you always this warm?” 

“What are you _ doing,_” says Felix, and his voice doesn’t sound quite as disdainful as Sylvain is used to. It sounds… thrown off. Sylvain’s not really sure but whatever it is, he kind of likes it.

“Taking your temperature,” Sylvain says, without a trace of irony. 

Felix says nothing. He’s actually oddly still. Felix’s blade flutters at his throat as Sylvain closes his eyes to savor the contact, feeling Felix’s fingers for as long as he thinks he can get away with. He’s so warm. He’s _ so _ warm. Each finger is burning, burning, burning and Felix -- Felix is so _still_. 

Sylvain disentangles their hands just as Felix finally reaches his limit and kicks him to the ground; he fake-groans and falls into the dirt, heart pounding in his ears, even as Felix’s usual derision washes over him syllable by quiet syllable, a thousand miles away. 

“Are you done,” says Felix. “What were you even searching for.” It’s a statement and not a question. Sylvain doesn’t answer, just breathes deeply and tries to think of a response that won’t leave him sounding like a total moron.

He’s just about ready to give up on the Burnish thing. Maybe he’ll try the direct approach. 

* * *

He knows where to find Felix: that one hill he likes, the one he predictably retreats to when the weather’s nice and he doesn’t want to see anyone. In other words, all the damn time. It’s a bit of a trek, though, and the shadows have lengthened by the time he gets there. Fireflies are out in force. A very recognizable figure is sitting by himself, scowling.

“Hey, Felix,” he says, flopping on the grass with a _ thud. _ It’s muggy as hell. The grass prickles uncomfortably beneath him. Whatever.

Felix gives him the once-over. “You’ve been drinking.”

Sylvain totally ignores him. Of course he has. It’s _ Sunday. _ “Hey, hey. Did you hear? Apparently the greenhouse almost caught on fire last night. Wild, right?”

“Why would I care?” 

“I thought you were, like, on duty. Or something.” 

“You were mistaken.”

Sure he was.

“How was your week?” says Felix suddenly. It’s so unexpected he chortles, which is probably the wrong move. Felix looks at him very sharply as he tries to choke down his guffaw. 

“Sorry! I’m sorry. It’s just… asking me about my week, Felix? You’re not really a small-talk guy.” 

“This isn’t small talk,” he says, petulant. Sylvain can imagine his ears flaring red, considers craning his neck to see it. No, that’d ruin the mood. “I haven’t seen you in a while. That’s all.” 

“Brunch and sparring practice is usually enough _ me _ for you,” Sylvain observes. “But hey, I’m not complaining that you miss me.” Felix glares at him. “I’ve been up to the usual. Skirt-chasin’, cert-chasin’, all that good stuff --”

“_Cert _chasing?” 

“You know! Certifications. Studying for them.” 

“Don’t ever say that again.” Felix is trying to hide his amusement. With anyone else he’d have succeeded.

“But the rhyme! The _ rhyme, _ Felix. Anyway, following skirts and _ pursuing _ certifications. Normal stuff…” 

He can always make Felix laugh. When it’s just the two of them, anyway. It’s like a superpower. Felix won’t let his guard down around other people or, really, at all, but if they’re just hangin’ out, bros being bros, he’ll sometimes let out a little chuckle or two, which in Felix-speak is like roaring Raphael peals of laughter. It’s fine that the jokes are usually at his expense since Felix is too serious to laugh at himself much anyway. When he’s feeling particularly good sometimes he can even get Felix to punch him playfully, and tonight’s one of those nights for sure: his wisecrack about Ferdinand and _ Lorenz _ has Felix in stitches, clutching Sylvain’s arm for air and man, everything’s coming up Sylvain. Alcohol’s a hell of a drug. 

“Hey, Felix,” he continues, emboldened by his own success. “Can I ask you something?” 

Whoops, bad gambit. Felix Fraldarius doesn’t _ really _ let his guard down ever, he’s reminded now, as Felix’s eyes snap intensely to his own. 

“Uh,” says Sylvain. “Or not? If it’s, like, a bad time?” 

“Ask,” says Felix, very quietly. 

Damn, maybe he shouldn’t have pregamed this conversation. Bad time to not be in control of himself. Not with Felix looking at him like… like… like that. 

“Okay, so -- are you, like, Burnish, or something?”

_ “What?” _

“You heard me. I just thought…” Uh, what did he think, exactly? 

_ Stuff kinda heats up when you’re around. So… _

Felix’s face, normally so impassive, is darkening _ fast_, like the roiling clouds before a storm. He’s looking at Sylvain with such intensity that Sylvain can barely stand to look at him, eyes sparking and ablaze with dangerous light. 

“If I were, Sylvain,” he says, “what makes you think I’d want you to know?”

“Was... that a yes?”

Whatever Felix is searching his face for, he must find, because he relaxes, almost imperceptibly, and Sylvain now feels confident Felix isn’t going to murder him on this hilltop. Now he might die five minutes later, but here and now won’t be it. Probably.

“You really didn’t know,” says Felix, almost to himself. “I thought you…” 

Sylvain laughs, unpleasant to his own ears. “Felix, I know I may _ seem _ impossibly brilliant, but some things do get by me sometimes. Like your secrets,” he adds with a wink. It’s a Gautier thing, really: saying exactly what you mean with a heavy enough dose of insincerity that no one fucking buys it. Sylvain could probably pour his heart out right now, and Felix would roll his eyes and not buy a word. _ There’s a lot of shit I don’t understand about you, that I’d kill to. Wink. I’d do anything for you if you’d just fucking let me in. __Wink. _

Felix, predictably, ignores his bullshit. He’s staring intently at the ground. 

“Would you like to see?” he says suddenly.

“What?” 

“How I burn,” says Felix.

Sylvain’s mouth suddenly goes very dry. Felix is staring at him, staring _ through _ him, and he knows he can’t fuck up his response. But what did it mean, what did it _ mean _ for him to say that? Was this some kind of metaphor? Did Felix even know what a metaphor _ was? _

God, he looked so cute. 

Not cute. Hot. 

Had he, like a complete asshole, fallen hopelessly for his best friend? And _ when?_

“I’ll show you,” Felix says. “If you want.” 

_ Please. _

Felix holds out his hand. 

It’s this moment that is going to change Sylvain’s life forever. A little flame is cradled there, blue-pink and flickering from the palm, and Felix looks at it more tenderly than Sylvain would ever have imagined you could look at a lick of flame.

It swells and grows, little jags of fire sparking now as it snakes and coils its way down Felix’s bare arm and finally leaps -- with a jump and a sputter -- to Sylvain’s own wrist. It’s like a fucking… fire snake is twisting around them both, a burning string between them. It doesn’t hurt at all. It’s barely warm. Felix is protecting him, he realizes all at once, shielding him from the flames and their fury. Somehow that thought makes his chest clutch all the more. 

Felix is looking at him as though he has one last thing to show him. And show him he does. Black flecks of -- of armor? of _ something _ \-- are materializing, crawling up and down Felix’s arm and slotting into place. Now they cover his limbs, his fingers, his hands. Now the little flame glows all the more starkly in his palm, throwing the black talon around it in stark relief. It looks like an alien, almost, all jagged edges and dangerous angles. But it’s still Felix. His face is still peeking out from beneath all that armor, pale and bright, and the juxtaposition makes him look frankly ridiculous but also _ really fucking attractive. _

Sylvain can’t lie. It’s six PM on a Sunday and he’s six beers in and in free fall, plummeting through space, galaxies of stars and fire whirling before his eyes. Because that sight before him -- Felix smoldering, covered in black armor -- there’s no denying it, it’s the hottest thing he's ever fucking seen. 

* * *

In his twenty-odd years on this earth, Sylvain doesn’t think he’s ever had a problem he couldn’t solve with flirting or alcohol before. 

And now, somehow, he’s got both.

His phone blinks twice.

_  
Hey  
_ _ I haven’t seen you around lately. _

  
Damn right you haven’t, thinks Sylvain. They haven’t texted in like a week. He’s made excuses that Felix has somehow bought but the truth boils down to one obvious thing: Felix is really fucking hot and Sylvain can’t unsee it. 

And, you know, he’s like… thought about it before, right, getting with his best friend, because that’s a thing people think sometimes. But never so seriously. Not since last week, when that whole armor thing happened and every circuit in his brain fried. All week he’s been trying to glue his two remaining neurons back together, with limited fucking success. All week that image has been haunting him, the knowledge of what he wants to do and be done_ to _ by that armor, and the meta-knowledge that he knows this, now, about himself. He can’t forget. And he wants to. Or does he? 

He doesn’t know at this point. He just wants to hang out with Felix again, because he misses him. And maybe make out, too, if he’s lucky?

_ yooooo, _he opts to respond, instead of breathing a word of that shit. God, what a mess.

Felix’s response is immediate.

_Down to spar? _

Oh _ god_, thinks Sylvain, and holds his face in his hands. He definitely can’t do that. Last time they fought he almost passed out from how badly he wanted to touch him.

It’s not just the armor that keeps him up at night, though who the fuck is he kidding, it’s definitely the armor. It’s the _ disclosure. _ Felix’s face that night, admitting his vulnerability, trusting him enough with his deepest secret. His face burns at the thought. 

He’s not trying to ghost Felix, exactly. More trying to ghost _ himself. _ Like, maybe if he ignores himself for long enough the problem will go away. Yeah. Right. 

_ im soryr!! not rlty feelin up ot it atm _

_ Lame.  
_ _ Are you drinking in your room again? _

Yeah, he sure is. Sylvain takes a look around his room. It’s absolutely vile. Tissues everywhere, crushed beer cans littering the floor, a heap of dirty laundry like a rat’s nest. He’s got twenty-seven matches pending on his dating apps and they’re all angry girls who kinda look like Felix if you squint _ and _you’re hammered. Though he’s squinting and he’s hammered now and none of them are doing it for him. Night is falling and he’s been lying here for hours, drinking, swiping right, and feeling sorry for himself on 3% battery. Wallow, rinse, repeat. 

He wonders if there’s a word for when you’re feeling sorry for yourself but you’re also really fucking horny. Maybe he'll coin it. The Gautier special. 

_ yuo got me lmao havent left all day _

_ Disgusting. You need to go outside. _

_ do i tho????? _

_Yes._

_ok fine onyl if we can hang on tnhat hill u like _

There’s a pause during which Felix’s little bubble is typing and Sylvain wonders if that was too forward of him. He’s surprised by the straightforward response: 

_ See you there. _

* * *

Felix is sitting on the grass.

“I don’t know why I agreed to meet you here,” he says, to no one in particular. “I could be training.” 

“You sure could,” agrees Sylvain, as he tries not to look at Felix’s hands, or arms, or anywhere, really. Every part of his body is a danger zone. He’s just going to look at the stars. 

Which are moving. 

Oh. _ Fireworks. _Huh. 

“The midsummer festival,” he says with wonder. “I forgot.” 

Felix snorts. “You didn’t notice? They’re not exactly quiet.”

Sylvain thinks about telling him about the sad fucking songs he’s been blasting. _Nobody_ on repeat. He thinks better of it.

They spend a moment gazing at the fireworks over the Airmid in silence. It’s a beautiful spectacle, the ribbons of flame whizzing high into the air and exploding into showers of colored light, the crowds on the bridge yelling and cheering. Pure nostalgia. Summer is ending and a fresh year of worries beginning. Sylvain has watched these self-same fireworks with Felix before, as teenagers and kids, but not recently, and never alone.

The silence between them crackles. 

“The sparklers. Can you make them do things?” he says suddenly. Even he isn’t sure what he means. “I mean, they’re on fire, right? So you could make them, like, shapes, and colors, and stuff.” 

“I guess I can,” says Felix, as if he’s never considered the idea before. He probably actually hasn’t.

“You gotta, Felix! You gooootta. I wanna see.” Sylvain grabs his arm pleadingly. Felix looks at him sharply and holds it for a while. Then he nods, almost imperceptibly. 

A lick of lavender flame sparks from his fingertips and trickles into the air around them, surging and electrifying in turn. It’s a dragon, Sylvain realizes, as it writhes and takes shape. The dragon of Fraldarius. It’s lithe and dangerous and there’s something very Felix about it as it encircles them both, eyes gleaming. It pulses around them, sniffing the air around them like a being all its own. As Felix releases it into the night sky with a whisper it snakes through the air, jagged and glittering, until it reaches the zenith and _ boom! _explodes into a dizzying array of angles, points of light that cascade over Garreg Mach in glittering, variegated infinity.

What the fuck, it is so fucking cool. 

“Good enough for you?” Felix says, with a look that Sylvain has almost never seen on him. Apprehension, maybe? _Oh shit, wait, he actually wants my approval._ _Also I’m still holding his arm. _

“That was _ awesome,” _he says, completely genuinely. Felix sighs a very small sigh. He’s pleased as punch. It’s very cute. “You show that off often?” 

“Are you stupid? I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” 

“Aw man, am I _ special?” _ Sylvain says, and Felix visibly stiffens. “What’s so special about me, huh?” 

Man, this is not a _ positive _ quality, per se, but Felix’s discomfort absolutely gives him confidence. Glad to know he’s not the only one uncomfortable here. Felix is staring at some grass like he doesn’t want to be asked any questions. Sylvain knows that look: he’s been wearing it all week. 

“Come on, you can tell me,” he presses. “Is it my unparalleled skill with the lance? Dashing good looks? Something I’m forgetting?” Emboldened evenly by instinct and alcohol, he slouches one casual arm around Felix’s shoulder. 

Now Felix goes still again. Deathly still. He shivers head to toe and gives Sylvain a look that, if Sylvain had to put into words, roughly says _ are you fucking kidding me. _

“Are you… cold?” Sylvain asks, dumbly. 

_ Wait. He’s Burnish. He can’t be cold. _Sylvain reaches out, unthinking, and touches his forehead. He's not cold at all. Then why is he shaking? 

“You’re burning up,” he croaks. 

Felix is very still. It’s an unnatural stillness that looks like it’s taking an immense effort_ , _ like something is roiling just beneath his skin, threatening to erupt at any moment. What that might be Sylvain has no clue. All he knows is that he can’t see Felix properly with all those little strands of hair falling over his eyes. He smoothes them behind his ears gently, so gently, one by one. Felix closes his eyes like he can’t bear to watch. He looks... really good like this. Beautiful, even.

He could kiss him. Just like that. 

Did he just say that out loud? 

Felix’s eyes jolt open.

He can’t unsay that, can he? He’s pretty sure he can’t unsay that. 

Felix’s eyes are wide. 

“Sorry,” Sylvain says helplessly. It’s all he can say. He can see himself reflected in Felix’s eyes, wild and sloppy, booze on his breath. “I didn’t -- I mean, I meant what I said, but -- you don’t have to -- do anything. About it. Yeah.” 

Then Felix _ growls. _ The noise thrums straight down his spine. 

“Wait, shit, do that again,” Sylvain says breathlessly. 

That’s fucking it for Felix. He leaps upon Sylvain like an _ animal. _

* * *

Their mouths meet in a clatter of heat and pent-up _ desire_, and fuck is this ever what Sylvain’s wanted for a long fucking time. 

Sylvain’s usually -- the aggressor, when he goes out with girls. He likes charming and they like being charmed. He’s used to the song and dance, to making the first move, to the little sighs that escape them when he teases their mouths open, gently as they please.

This is different. Felix is upon _ him _ with a ferocity that leaves him breathless, unable to talk or think or do much of anything as he melts into the sensations sparking through his mouth, tender and violent. It’s better than it has any right to be. 

He wants more. 

“If you’re lying,” growls Felix. “If this is one of your _ games_. I’ll --” 

“You’ll kill me, I know,” Sylvain breathes, tugging Felix’s hair just hard enough to get a yelp. “I’m not. Less death threats. More of this.” 

Felix makes a noise of strangled irritation. Then he’s upon him again. Somehow they’ve both lost their footing and collapsed into the grass, Felix swaying and landing on top of Sylvain with a string of curses_. _

Felix’s mouth is somehow aggressive and searching, like he wants to own him but also assess him at the same time. Like he’s trying to taste whether Sylvain’s being sincere. He can, can’t he? Of course Sylvain’s always sincere, but. This? This is real.

It seems like Felix realizes that too: with a small, satisfied noise the kiss morphs completely into something far more gentle and intimate. An exploration. Sylvain curls an experimental hand through Felix’s hair, the better to press them together gently. Felix relaxes into him, which is somehow more satisfying than all his anger was, because angry Felixes are a dime a dozen but vulnerable Felix, now that’s Christmas come early. And then he _ whimpers_, and that’s New Years thrown in, too. 

And, oh yeah, they’re on fire. How did he not anticipate this? Sparks of fire are coursing through and around them, crackling through the air, erupting into white-hot blazing intensity when they get excited: when Felix scrapes his nails down Sylvain’s drenched shirt, when Sylvain swipes a practiced tongue across Felix’s neck, when pretty much anything happens at all. 

“The fire you showed me -- I _ knew _ you burned brighter than that,” Sylvain says, because he _ did, _ he’s wanted to see Felix burn for God knows how long, from the very start.

“Don’t use your _ lines _ on me,” Felix spits, and oh, he could use more spitting, just like that. He’d take that any day. “I’m not one of your _ girls.” _

“But you’re cute when you’re angry,” Sylvain says, petulant as he can manage while every fiber of his being is on fire. 

“Sylvain,” Felix says hoarsely, both a curse and a prayer, “you fucker, _ Sylvain_,” and then he yelps and shuts up, because if there’s one thing Sylvain has on Felix it’s knowing how to kiss, and Felix is cute when he’s mad but he’s even cuter when he’s ragged and clutching at Sylvain like there’s no tomorrow. Sure, he’s a degenerate, but he’s damn well gonna use that hard-earned knowledge to make Felix feel good. To remember him. Not like Felix really gets around, but, well, in this moment Sylvain’s fucking petty and needy at the same time: he nips at Felix’s neck again and again as Felix yelps and digs his nails into Sylvain’s jacket. Why is he still wearing a jacket? Why are they wearing anything at all?

He sheds the jacket. Heat is rising from every pore of his body. From the sound Felix makes when he rips off his vest he thinks he isn’t alone. 

It’s not even a metaphor: they are literally on fire. He’s astonished they haven’t incinerated the entire field. Felix is so _ responsible. _ If you’d told him a year ago he could find being responsible attractive, he’d… well, he’d probably think of Felix, actually. 

He should have just dragged Felix into a closet on day one of the investigation. Saved a lot of time. 

But then he’d have missed the fireworks.

“Felix,” he says all at once, syllables tumbling out fast, before he forgets. “Let’s spend the midsummer festival together.” 

Felix gives him a Look.

“That’s what we’re doing,” he says, like there aren’t words to convey how fucking dumb Sylvain is. 

“No, yeah, I _ know, _ I meant like. Next year. And every year after that.” It just seems _ right. _ “We can hang out right here. I’ll drink and you’ll train. And I’ll train with you! If I’m not too drunk. And we’ll hit up all the food stalls. But no sweets. I won’t even flirt with anyone. And… ” 

Felix buries his face in Sylvain’s chest. He is laughing uncontrollably. 

“What,” protests Sylvain, “did I do _ this _ time, Felix, what’s so funny --” 

“You,” replies Felix, gazing at him… _ fondly? _ Oh, is that gaze _ fond? _ His heart’s going to jump out of his chest and stab itself. Of that he’s sure. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“I am _ not,” _ replies Sylvain, as indignantly as he can while thinking of ways to move them to his room. “I am very believable.” 

“Yeah,” says Felix, kissing him silent, kissing him _ stupid. _“You are.”

**Author's Note:**

> -i don't know where the fuck this is set i guess in 20xx where garreg mach is a town like .... cambridge ma???!?!? where they do natsumatsuri??? lmao rip  
-epilogue: sylvain dunks them both in the river to cool off


End file.
